


Of Mystery and Dreams: A White Christmas Story

by WhiteRoseOfRivendell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Magic, Family means everything, Fluff, Johnlock to the rescue, Kisses and mistletoe, M/M, Mrs. Hudson is in trouble, Murder and mystery, Parody, Singing, White Christmas movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteRoseOfRivendell/pseuds/WhiteRoseOfRivendell
Summary: The boys are at it again. This time an out-of-town case leads to the discovery of a friend in need of a Christmas miracle. It's up to Sherlock, John, and their team of crazy coppers to save the day. Will Christmas come to the Colombia Lodge? Inspired by the phenomenal holiday classic White Christmas, this story has murder, mystery, mayhem, and a touch of 1950s class.  *Extra disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, really, even the non-Sherlock ones. White Christmas is not mine as well. This a parody meant to honor the film and Sherlock as a testament to their brilliance.





	1. I'm Dreaming

The music flowed unwaveringly from the small player carefully sat near the back wall of the barrack. The volume was maintained at a low decibel, however the words and the melody were enough to fill the void created by the harsh circumstances surrounding the small structure. Though it was a time of joy and togetherness in many parts of the world, this was a place where each man struggled to keep his heart light. This night had been fairly quiet and the men were thankful for it. They lie in their bunks reading, listening, thinking, waiting. A hush of this kind may truly mean a night of peace, or it could mean an event was on the horizon. For here they lived moment to moment, and thought to thought.

John lay there, hands clasped behind his head. Bing Crosby played beside him and he closed his eyes, imagining the White Christmas that the deep, soothing voice sang of. It was one of his favourite carols. As a child, he would listen to it and twirl the ornaments that decorated the Christmas tree. A flat, round glass bauble was the one he remembered the best. It depicted a snowy countryside with a red sleigh pulled by a team of lean, auburn horses. The trees were bare, the branches lifted to the clear sky. The back of the ornament was painted gold and it shined and reflected his face as it spun. There were many ornaments collected through the years, but that one was special. It's glass was thin, delicate, and smooth. So thin it was, that it did not stand up to Harry's drunken shenanigans one Christmas Eve. John had been heartbroken when the precious trinket dropped and shattered on the floor beneath the tree. In slow motion it seemed to happen and the sound of the glass breaking echoed in his ears for a long while.

His eyes flew open then, just in time to see bright flashes coming from outside. The accompanying booms forcing him to cover his ears, he sat up in his bunk. The crisp sound of broken glass was replaced by a resounding thunder. Their location was under attack. Dust and smoke blew in clouding the barrack. It assaulted his nose and eyes. He looked around. His fellow soldiers were already on their feet. He attempted to join them, but the side of the room suddenly collapsed inward. The force of the explosion sent him flying back against the opposite wall. His left arm hit hard and he could feel it shatter. The onslaught continued, explosions raining down in torrents. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the image of his ornament, shattered just like his arm, resting on the floor in pieces.

xxxxxx

The door to 221B crashed open, startling John from his rest, if that is how one would describe it. Chest heaving, eyes wide he stared at his flatmate trying to fully awake from the vivid dream. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he returned the stare.

"John, get up," he walked into the flat, disposing of his coat on an obliging chair in one swift move, "It's Christmas."

"Uh yeah, not quite," John rubbed his eyes and sat up, "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Sherlock looked over quizzically, "Were you asleep?"

"You're the consulting detective."

"Hmmmm," his eyes narrowed, "Another Afghanistan flashback, mild by the looks of it," he stepped over to the desk beside the window.

John just chuckled and laid back on the couch, covering his face with his hands. Sherlock was so...Sherlock about things. He stretched his arms above his head, running his knuckles along the wallpaper. _I should just punch him in the face,_ he thought, _maybe later._

"So out with it then, what have you got?"

Sherlock opened John's laptop, quickly pulling up a news story, "Changed your password again," he said nonchalantly.

John sighed, "Yeah, I do it to amuse myself sometimes."

He really did. Resigned to the fact that Sherlock would undoubtedly ascertain his password and use the blasted thing whenever convenient, and sometimes even when not, he changed the password just to see how long it would take Sherlock to figure it out. This time was much shorter than expected.

"Mmmm, try something more challenging next time, would you? Exasperating, really," he turned the laptop to face John.

The page displayed the story of a serial killer on the loose in the country. There had been multiple victims so far, found in outlying locations. Strange letters were attached to their clothing, which looked as though it had been removed, freshly laundered, and returned to the victim posthumously. The letters themselves were strange in that they were in a beautiful script and formally written. Each was addressed to the victim, but did not state any personal facts. They were written as if the murderer were writing a letter of recommendation. The weapon of choice appeared to be an axe, as parts of the bodies were clean-severed and missing. The police reported leads, but it was obvious that they had none. There were no other clues reported and nothing in common between the victims.

"Ok, Dorset. So?"

"We're leaving," Sherlock slammed down the screen and stalked off toward his bedroom.

"It's December 18th," he yelled after him, "Sherlock..."

No response.

John rubbed his face with his hands and banged his head back against the couch. _Why did he do this?_ John thought with exasperation. _But, I always follow._ With that, John rose up off the couch and walked to his room to prepare for the trip. He grabbed his overnight bag from his closet and filled it with his effects. It was routine. It was on a moment's notice, and it was his life. 

They were ready and out the door in no time. Sherlock stood on the curb and raised his hand. A cab, as usual, stopped immediately and picked them up. The trip to the train station was uneventful. They spoke a little about the case, but Sherlock had not been able to get much more pertinent information from Lestrade nor the Weymouth police than what had already been reported. They hopped on the 4:55 at London Waterloo. Running down the platform, they almost missed the train. Out of breath and full of adrenaline, they made their way to the club car. They had three hours until they would arrive in Weymouth and John decided that if he was to be traveling during the holidays to chase a murderer, he would at least make the best of it.

They sat in the cozy dining carriage. It was small and hosted only a counter to order from, but nonetheless, drinks were ordered and there it was. The car was minimally decorated with red and green garlands, which clashed with the tan vinyl seats and pale yellow walls. However, it was an attempt at Christmas cheer and it did not go unnoticed or unappreciated. The curtains were all still open and the rush of the city could be seen turning into rolling country in one long slide of travel. John sipped at his second Sloe Gin. It was not his favourite, however at this time of year, the taste was lovely. It warmed his chest and he could feel a slight rose affecting his cheeks. Sherlock sat across from him, bored and getting increasingly loud about his deductions of the people aboard the train. He had not touched his drink and John was ever so inclined to grab his head and force the libation down his throat. A tipsy Sherlock was preferable at this moment as his goofy smile tended to get in the way of his wagging tongue.

"....And him, really...the light discoloration on his left hand ring finger, anxious fiddling with his hands, hair brushed across his forehead. Does he really think his wife doesn't see that he is not spending his winter holiday on an extra assignment? She already knows judging from..."

"Sherlock," John interrupted.

"...the phone that has been going off for the past twenty minutes in increasing texts, a bit too often for business, at least his business. Not very successful..."

"Sherlock!"

He stopped and looked at John.

"Why this case?" if he couldn't get him off of deduction, at least getting him talking about the case would be a welcome and necessary reprieve.

"I told you, Lestrade received a call from the station in Weymouth. What they told me was all the information I have, which is most likely more than enough. THEY are out of their league, of course."

"Yeah, so? What's the real reason you took it?"

Sherlock stared at John in that quizzical way, when he's meant to answer a question posed to his mind and not his mind palace. John retuned the stare as level as he could. He knew the answer. You don't live with Sherlock Holmes and not pick up a few skills on deduction. Add to that his knowledge of his friend; he had a fairly good idea of the reason for said excursion.

"Homicide is my..." he began, but was abruptly cut off by John's disapproving tut. He sighed and pursed his lips, "Mycroft is coming to Christmas dinner at our parents'," he quickly finished. He fidgeted with the large holiday menu sitting near the wall, pretending to be mildly interested in the image of snow and pine trees on the front.

"Ah-ha, so you took a case to avoid the festivities, and you saw fit to drag me out to the country a bloody week before Christmas hoping that you 'wouldn't solve the case in time' to be back."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and took a large pull from his drink. John just smiled with satisfaction.

"You know you're going to solve this as soon as we arrive, so why even bother?" John asked.

Sherlock finished the rest of his drink in one gulp, much to John's surprise, "I was bored. Besides, it's not just homicide, John. This is a serial killer, and a proud one at that. He wants so desperately to be caught. They all do. They love their work. They want it on display. He may not even know that he wants to be caught, but it compels him. He puts a signature on his victims like an artist puts a signature on a painting. And what artist does not want to be recognized for the genius of their work?"

"Well now, there's the pot and the kettle. Still, it beats living room target practice," John handed Sherlock another gin, "Cheers."

xxxxxx

The train arrived promptly at 7:54pm, much to the delight of its passengers, in particular a certain blond army doctor. Disembarking was a slow process as the train had been mostly full with people traveling for the holidays. His winter coat zipped tightly, John stepped onto the platform, followed by Sherlock, his lapel turned up to brace against the cold. But the chill did not assault their senses. In fact, standing under the warm halogen lights dotting the platform, one could hardly tell it was well into winter.

"A bit warm for December, isn't it?" John commented, looking around and unzipping his coat.

"It hasn't snowed here since Thanksgiving...sixty-eight yesterday!" The porter piped up as he moved past them carrying armfuls of luggage down the walkway.

"Hmmm, strange..." John said offhandedly. He looked at Sherlock, standing stoic and still bundled in his coat and scarf, "Sherlock," he turned and grabbed the lapels of the detective's Belstaff, turning them down and loosening the scarf below, "You look like Nanook of the North..."

Sherlock gave him a slightly annoyed look, but did not stop the doctor, "It would be best if we went on to the Police Station rather than stand here focusing on my attire. We have a case to solve, John."

"It's past eight. And I'm afraid to ask if you have made arrangements for lodging," came the snarky reply.

"I want any updated information available as soon as possible to solve the case. Why go to a hotel now?" He scanned the station nonchalantly.

John grabbed his shoulders with both hands, "Sherlock, tell me you booked a room. Somewhere, anywhere, just tell me you booked one," it was John's turn to be annoyed.

Sherlock sighed. Why did he have to deal with such trivial details? 

"We are staying in a lodge just out of town. I happen to know the owner. There. Are we all happy? Can we go to the Police Station now?"

John huffed, raising his finger to speak his mind to the waiting face in front of him, but decided it was really of no use. Pulling the scarf from Sherlock's neck, he turned with a jerk, and walked toward a taxi that was waiting in the near by car park.

xxxxxx


	2. The Plan

The local DI was a stern and serious young man. He took his job too seriously in fact, most likely due to the fast promotion and subsequent stress beyond the experience of his limited amount of decades on this Earth. Still, he was concise and gave the pair all the information they required, handing a copy of the file to the consulting detective. John was grateful for this as he was really hoping to get some semblance of sleep tonight.

Soon, they were on their way to the lodge. True to Sherlock's word, it was just outside of town, on a small road dotted by thin trees. A tiny brook traversed their path and the taxi drove over a small, stone bridge leading to the property. The lodge was quaint; it was the sort of place you would go to on holiday looking for peace and quiet. The aging wood showed signs of care through the years. The white paint was not fresh nor was the scarlet trim; it gave the lodge a vintage feel that so many longed for in this age of fast-paced hours and round-the-clock technology. The porch stood inviting against the bucolic landscape as the near full moon showered its light upon the pitched roof. A few wrought iron lanterns illuminated the road and drive way, and all the lights of the main building were still glowing through the four picture windows facing front.

Sherlock walked briskly through the crisp, brown leaves that littered the ground. Up the stairs he went, into the lobby, and straight to the front desk, John in tow. They set their bags down in an unplanned unison with a noisy thud. A gentleman, tall and thin, whose greying hair was coifed close to his head, stood behind the counter. His demeanor was formal and practiced, as a soldier's might be, but his face was kind. He looked up, smiled, and greeted the two travelers.

"Good evening, welcome to the Colombia Lodge, what kind of accommodations can I offer you?" His baby blue eyes were warm and smiled along with the rest of his face.

"We aren't checking in," Sherlock said curtly, "I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson. We are here for the murders."

The man's mouth hung open a bit. It was obvious he was confused and did not know how to respond to this statement. However, that was par for the course when interacting with Sherlock. Still wanting a good night's sleep, John decided to step in and clarify.

"We are checking in. If you would..."

Before he could finish, a familiar face came walking in the side door carrying a bag of groceries. A young boy, about fourteen, with wavy ginger hair and pink cheeks followed her with a stack of fire wood in his arms.

"Sherlock..." the lady put the bag on the counter and walked over to the consulting detective. She gave him a brief but firm hug, squeezing his shoulders a bit before letting go.

"Mrs. Hudson," he replied in his usual detached manner. Inwardly, he held an abundance of affection for the woman, however tedious she could be sometimes.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, the surprise apparent in his tone.

"John," she walked over and gave him a warm hug, bringing her hands to his face to cradle his flushed cheeks, "You're chilled. Where have you two been? I'll put the kettle on. Come over by the fire..."

"No, it's fine. I'm actually not that cold. It's just very warm in here. I...we thought it would be much colder this time of year. What happened to the snow?" He replied, deflecting her motherly guidance.

"Oh, we take it in during the evening. Do you think you'll be staying long? I do hope Sherlock doesn't take too long to sort out this murder mess. Between that and the weather, we've had next to no business. Leastways not the normal holiday traffic."

"I'm sorry...you own this hotel?" John asked confused.

"She got it in a shrewd business move," the man behind the counter answered.

"Yes, dear," Mrs Hudson addressed John, "Something I invested in after my husband died. A sort-of parting gift to myself. Tom here is my second in command when I'm in London," the grey-haired man nodded, "And this is my great-nephew, Phillip," the boy nodded as well, adding a quick hello, "He likes to go by Phil," she added, whispering to the side.

"Right," he replied distractedly, still musing over how it could be that he did not know about this little side venture of hers.

"But you must be tired; let's get you checked in," she ushered them back around to the front desk.

"Well, you can have any room in the place, including mine..." Tom said glumly.

"Is it really that bad?" John asked, turning back to Mrs. Hudson.

She nodded, "I'm afraid so. The ski tow up the way is only being used to hang the wash. If this keeps up, I may have to give up on the lodge. It's a shame too. I have a lot invested here, and it's such a lovely spot to go on holiday...very quiet."

She smiled, though John and Sherlock knew it to be false. The sadness in her eyes betrayed her.

xxxxxx 

The case was as John had predicted. Sherlock had it solved before noon the next day. The DI was grateful for the assistance, even if Sherlock hadn't completely held back his opinion regarding the intelligence of the local police force. Nonetheless, the murderer was caught. The town safe again, Sherlock and John went back to the lodge to take lunch before heading back to 221b Baker's Street. It was 2 o'clock and the two sat in the middle of the empty restaurant. A few sandwiches and some hot soup had been ordered, along with a pint for John and coffee for Sherlock. The consulting detective sat, his food untouched, and sipped nonchalantly at his cup.

"I thought you were going to drag this one out," John said with a hint of sarcasm, "What about your family dinner?"

Sherlock turned his attention to John, "I realized it would have been unethical to delay the capturing of the murderer in order to avoid the company of my brother. I suppose I will have to endure it," Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he grumbled out the words.

John changed the subject. One thing he did not want was another train ride with "I'm-unhappy-and-bored-so-I'm-going-to-be-a-monstrous-prat" Sherlock. He looked to where Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up behind the bar.

"She always makes sure we have something to eat. She always makes sure to scold us when we don't sleep..."

"Yes, and with the cadence of her scolding, no one sleeps for the next 48 hours," Sherlock replied.

"It's a shame about the lodge. With no snow plus the murders," he took a spoonful of soup, "I hope the business picks up for her."

"Yes, not much chance of that happening now."

John looked up at him, "Why do you say that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The murderer has been caught, no thanks to the local police force. The only clever thing they did was call us. And, as you have stated multiple times, Christmas is almost here..."

"Wait, what did you just say?" John cut off the introduction to what could have been a very long rant.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he looked annoyed, "Christmas, John. It's almost here..."

"No, the part about the police calling us in being the only clever thing," his mind reeled and he looked out the window as the idea unfurled, "I have a plan."

"A plan? A plan for what?"

"We are going to give Mrs. Hudson a little Christmas gift," he replied, "We are going to use your celebrity to help bring people to the lodge."

Sherlock's face was blank. It was as if John was speaking another language. Though that would be quite impossible as Sherlock was familiar with most languages and any attempt at another would quickly result in a rudimentary concept and understanding. Still, he sat quietly waiting for John to explain himself. John leaned in & whispered his plan. They would contact the media, with the help of their friends at the police departments. They would let it be known that Sherlock Holmes had once again made the world safe from murdering psychopaths. Next, they would have it aired on the tele that Sherlock was staying at the lodge for the Christmas holiday and this is the public's big chance to meet him in person and solve a mystery! 

"A dinner theatre mystery night? I don't do theatre," Sherlock said with disgust.

"Look, it will be easy. I'll call Lestrade and Donovan. We'll create a murder mystery, but we won't tell you who the murderer is. It won't be theatre. In a sense, you'd be solving a case! And helping Mrs. Hudson at the same time," he sat back completely satisfied with his genius plan.

"You really think that the three of you could come up with a mystery that I could not solve in the first 30 seconds of your 'dinner theatre'. Really. It's going to be a short night," he scoffed.

"So you'll do it then?" John ignored his bravado.

Sherlock stared at him evenly. He loathed the idea of entertaining the public. He was a consulting detective, not a ballerina. Still, his affection for their landlady and sense of responsibility for her protection overrode his loathing and he reluctantly agreed.

xxxxxx

Soon, the lodge was bustling with activity. Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Anderson had hopped on the train and now sat in the parlor adjoining the lobby. An aloof Sherlock sat by the fire with a cup of coffee. The room was inviting and the kettle just boiled. John sat to the right of Sherlock and informed the group of his plan.

"So we are going to perform this...on a stage?" Anderson asked.

Sherlock snorted.

John turned his head to give him a cool look, then turned back to Anderson, "The restaurant is right through those doors. It was made for dinner theatre. It's perfect," he leaned back smiling, hands resting on his knees.

"Well we certainly have enough ideas on how to create a murder mystery, right?" Lestrade piped up. From all the years he had known Sherlock, he had come to know Mrs. Hudson with fondness. He was excited to help. Not only was it in the service of a friend, but it allowed him an excuse to get out of London. Things with the wife were not especially glorious at the moment. Even though it was almost Christmas, some time apart was what they had settled on.

"Yeah, but even if we don't tell him the story, the freak will still figure it out. No one will want to see that," Donovan replied, "How do we know anyone will show up for this, anyway?"

"John has..." Sherlock began, but was stopped by a corrective stare from John, "I have employed certain relations of mine to aid in the dispensing of information to the public. No doubt my face is plastered all over the tele at this very moment," the disdain was only slightly apparent.

"And what does Mrs. Hudson think of all of this?" Donovan pursued.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other before John answered, "She doesn't actually know yet."

"What?" Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson exclaimed in unison.

"She got called away to London and she won't be back until Christmas Eve. It actually worked out well, I thought," John replied.

"Well, it sounds like it's all sorted. We better get to work on the show. Sherlock..." Lestrade turned to the consulting detective and said with a degree of satisfaction, "Get out."


	3. Liverwurst and Buttermilk

Later that evening, John lay awake in his bed staring at the ceiling. For some reason, he could not sleep no matter how many times he fluffed his pillow or changed positions. He sighed into the cool air of his room. Then he remembered that Tom had said there were some sandwiches left behind the counter of the restaurant if he became hungry. Perhaps if his stomach had something in it, it could persuade his mind to allow him to sleep. He got up and put on his robe, his red pajamas in stark contrast to the white of the plush material. Putting on his shoes, he stepped out into the brisk night air and headed toward the main building.

Walking into the lobby, he could hear a violin playing softly. Not surprisingly, he found Sherlock standing near the stage playing a Christmas tune in a slow, solemn way. At first, he did not see John come in. The melody continued to flow throughout the room. John sat at the counter quietly and listened. It reminded him of the dream he had dreamt not more than a week before. It was the nostalgic hum of White Christmas. John put his elbow on the smooth countertop and leaned on his hand. His eyes closed and he tried his best to remember a time that the song hadn't meant disaster to him. So many Christmases had been spent alone, unhappy, or away from home, but then there was last year. His first Christmas at 221B Baker Street. He smiled. For reasons unknown, Sherlock became a bit less of an arse at Christmas. Perhaps it was his gift to the world, but John felt it might be that he just really liked the holiday. Perhaps, the sociopath's heart grew three sizes that day, just as the green, ill-tempered Grinch from the popular children's story. John chuckled.

The music suddenly stopped and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock had looked up from his instrument.

"Hello," John said, his mind still caught up in the music.

"John, what are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep. I don't know why, but I remembered Tom had said something about leftover sandwiches behind the counter. Do you want one?" John asked.

"No, I'm not hungry," but he set his violin down and came over to help John find the sandwiches, "I saw him putting them away..." walking behind the dark, glossed-wood bar, he crouched down and opened a paneled door. After a moment, he brought a plate of various sandwiches out of one of the refrigerators under the counter. Some were turkey, some were ham, a few were even liverwurst, and all were crowned with a single green olive. John suddenly realized that he was more hungry than he thought. Maybe the food really would help him sleep.

"Which one would you eat?" He said a bit playfully.

Sherlock looked at the sandwiches and then back to John, "I don't understand. I'm not the one eating."

John smiled, "I know, but if you were..."

Sherlock's face was still that of confusion, and it made John smile even more. For a self-proclaimed genius, he could be very dim witted at times.

"Well, what would you like to dream about?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry?" John was caught off-guard by the question.

"It is a well known fact that eating before bedtime affects the way in which you sleep. The digestive systems diverts energy in order to process the sustenance being consumed and therefore produces an alternate reaction in the body," he paused, "If I was to choose the ham and cheese on rye, I might dream about a cool morning on the moor with a fresh body. Turkey, I might dream about a night chase through the streets to catch a criminal."

"And the liverwurst?" John asked amused.

"I never dream of liverwurst.." Sherlock replied straight faced. Then a half smile creeped onto his lips.

John laughed, which made Sherlock laugh. He liked that Sherlock was making more attempts at humor. Most of them were with him, but it was good practice for use in the general public.

"It's an interesting theory," John said. 

Sherlock's face fell and he began to protest, "It is not a..."

"A bit chilly in here," John interrupted. A sudden chill had run through him and he pulled his robe together over his chest.

Sherlock was dressed in a dark blue suit, his jacket hugging his form over a white collared shirt, open to the second button. He had not noticed the chill before, but now that John mentioned it, there was a coolness about the room. He remembered there was a fire still burning in the pit in the parlor adjacent to the lobby and restaurant.

"I have just the place," protest forgotten, he walked out from behind the counter carrying the plate of sandwiches, "We'll gather around the fire. It's a lovely open-hearth in here," he headed into the other room.

John got up and followed him out the double doors and into the parlor. It was surrounded on two sides by picture windows. The embers of the fire reflected warmly in the glass panes. The whole room was dimly lit by a few vintage lamps that accompanied the firelight. The pit itself was surrounded by benches where floral seats were topped with green and red cushions. The entire lodge was reminiscent of the 1950s. It wasn't that it had not been updated, but the style was very much from a different time. It was inviting and peaceful. It seemed to fit, and at the moment, Sherlock seemed to fit with it. A softer intonation had found its way into his voice and mirth lay only partially hidden behind his eyes.

"See? Isn't that better?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Yes, I hadn't even noticed it still burning," John sat down on one of the green velvet cushions on the bench surrounding the hearth. Sherlock sat on the bench opposite, placing the plate next to John, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't had trouble falling asleep in a long time."

A look of concern crossed Sherlock's face briefly, and then he had a thought, something he remembered from long ago.

"I have a theory about that too, if you'd like to hear it," he offered tentatively from beneath auburn curls.

John was all ears on this one, "Very much."

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings," he sang in a slow, sweet way. John tried not to show his utter shock, but failed miserably. Sherlock swallowed hard, but looked down and continued, "When my bankroll is getting small, I think of when I had none at all, and I fall asleep counting my blessings. I think about a nursery and I picture curly heads, and one by one I count them as they slumber in their beds," he smiled and lifted his head, his hand coming to rest atop John's, "If you're worried and you can't sleep, just count your blessings instead of sheep, and you'll fall asleep counting your blessings."

Their eyes met. The cool blue-green of Sherlock's twinkled and John did not want to look away for fear he would never see it again. It was special and he knew there was a story behind it. He hoped upon hope that he would one day hear it. 

"How do you know that song?" John asked in a whisper.

"My mother," he began, "she loved Bing Crosby. It was her favourite Christmas album. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, she would sing it to me."

John was dumbfounded at the admission. Sherlock rarely shared intimate information. Most of the time he had found things out from Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson.  
Sherlock rose from the cushion then, walking over to a nearby table & examining the trinkets adorning it with feigned interest. He felt a bit exposed and he did not like it. John, feeling the discomfort walked over to his friend and gently took his arm.

"You know, just for the record, I think what you're doing for Mrs. Hudson is one of the most decent, unselfish things I've ever seen from you. I want to apologize for Donovan and the way she spoke about you. I know you don't care that much, but...she gets it in her head that you're some villain, when really...you're more like the knight on a dark horse."

Sherlock half-turned, at a loss for what to say, which was not common for him. Though he found it did not add to his discomposure. John's manner of speaking had a way of putting him at ease

"John, I...as I have said before, I am no hero. Dark or otherwise, it's dangerous putting knights up on horses, as you so metaphorically put it. They're likely to slip off, especially in my case."

"I think you're there to stay," he smiled and squeezed Sherlock's forearm.

Sherlock looked down, "That's good to know," he sighed, "To tell you the truth, one gets a bit shaky all alone on one of those midnight chargers," his gaze once again fell upon John.

"Are you worried you'll fall?"

"Maybe."

John sang back to Sherlock as he grinned, "If you're worried and you can't sleep, just count your blessings instead of sheep," Sherlock chuckled and chimed in with him.

"And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings."

The fire was warm and the smell of Christmas lingered in the air of the forgotten lodge. An incandescence enveloped the pair standing alone in the dim parlor. It lighted features that would not have been seen lest the glow overtake the dim. It was complimentary in it's contrast and beautiful in it's ability to highlight amidst the darkness. Sherlock kissed him then. It was a soft, hesitant kiss, but became more ardent as John's permission became clear. He brought his free hand up to cradle John's face, his other still restrained at his side by John's grasp. He doubted John even knew he was doing it. The grasp had lead to a grip and Sherlock found he appreciated the strength of force being exerted in such a tender moment. He would have to research it more.

"Ahem," came the clearing of a throat from behind them. Tom walked by clad in his royal blue robe and slippers. The lapels of his pajama shirt peeking out from beneath, "Excuse me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just after something for a sweet tooth," he turned back to look at the two, red-faced as they were, "I see you beat me to it."

As Tom continued on into the restaurant, Sherlock and John remained silent, glancing at each other like two teenagers who had been caught by their teacher behind the library. They giggled.

"So, which sandwich are you going to choose?"

John held Sherlock's hand, "I think I know just what I'm going to dream about."

He moved in and lightly brushed his lips against Sherlock's. It only lasted a moment when he heard Sherlock's whispered reply.

"That's quite improbable..."

The rest disappeared inside a kiss so fervent, the mistletoe blushed.

xxxxxx

The next couple of days were spent in preparation for Christmas Eve and the big show. A trip had been made to town to buy some extra decorations and a few props that were needed; most everything else could be found at the lodge. Two Christmas trees were brought in to flank the stage. Everyone did their part in decorating them. While Sherlock had stayed away from much of the preparation, he seemed very keen on helping in this chore. Though he and John had to take one tree on their own as the crew from Scotland Yard took the other. They had tried doing one at a time, but Sherlock's incessant attention to the precision of ornament placement soon had the rest of them bristling with annoyance. When each tree was finished and their brightly colored ornaments hung with pride beside the sparkling silver tinsel, shining stars were placed at the tops, crowning the trees like Christmas royalty. John looked over with satisfaction at Sherlock. On his friend's face was a placid smile as he looked up at the graceful sterling stars through unkempt curls. John reached over and picked away a few pine needles that had all but gotten lost in the fine tangles. Then he promptly shoo'd Sherlock out once more. There was still much to be done.

The mystery was coming along with only a few snags and disagreements. They were mostly to play themselves, which would lend itself to each of their limited acting experiences. There was just one exception.

"Why do I have to be the victim?" Anderson whined.

"Because you are the only one without acting experience and you're the only one who hasn't been in front of the cameras. The whole point of the show is to get people in here who have seen the cases on the tele or the paper and recognize the familiar faces," Lestrade explained. Anderson grumbled.

John added, "Besides, Sherlock is less likely to say something...unwelcome onstage if you're lying dead on the floor."

Lestrade snickered and Donovan nodded her head in agreement. Anderson reluctantly agreed and the show was back on track. 

The evening of the 23rd approached more quickly than anyone had thought possible. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but that is how it had been the past few days as they did not want the mystery to be given away. The rest of the "cast" were littered about the restaurant, consuming their favourite spirits and chatting about the impending festivities. Tom played on the piano set away by the corner of the stage and Phil sat beside him, a large plate of snacks on his lap. Donovan and Anderson sat at a table nearby listening to the upbeat music and picking at a pile of chips.

"Things have been going so well. I'm surprised. I was a little skeptical when John first called. Although, we'll see what the freak does tomorrow night. It should be entertaining, if nothing else," Donovan said.

"I have an idea," a slightly inebriated Anderson replied, "Why not have some fun? We've been working for days. We deserve some entertainment too."

Sally smiled and quirked a brow, "What did you have in mind?"

The drunken pair leaned toward each other to plot, "Let's tell John that we overheard Sherlock on the phone telling someone that he is not going to do the show, that he thinks it's rubbish. We all know he thinks it. Let's have a bit of fun with it!"

Donovan giggled, but covered her mouth to hide her amusement, "No, we can't. It's almost Christmas. We can't be unkind."

"What's unkind?" Anderson exclaimed, "John will go off at Sherlock and Sherlock will tell him he's an idiot for believing us. We just sit back and watch the action unfold. It'll all be a big joke in the end!"

"I don't know," Sally said, unconvinced.

"It'll be fine...watch..."

xxxxxx

"But you've been acting like you don't want to be in the show," Phil stated. The young boy now sat beside Sherlock, bundled up complete with scarf, hat, and gloves. The wind had picked up and winter's chill had set in around the lodge in a furious manner. The older man took his violin away from his chin and began his usual level stare, but held back. He did like Phil, as much as possible considering he was a child; and he often attempted to refrain from pointing out the idiocy among humans to youths. It seemed to upset them more for a reason Sherlock had yet to figure out. John had reminded him many times that young people processed things differently. In every day life, Sherlock did not engage with very many non-adults. His research into it was slow and intermittent.

"Would you like to hear a secret?" He looked down his nose at the boy. Children loved secrets; that he remembered from his own childhood.

"Sure," Phil replied, his attention now focused.

"Not only am I going to play out this ridiculous murder mystery they are planning, but I'm going to perform a few select solos on my violin. Mrs. Hudson likes it when I play," he stopped and thought, "Except for maybe when it's at 2:30 in the morning. She has said as much."

"Well, that stands to reason," Phil said pragmatically. Sherlock sent him an irritated look, but the boy continued, "I think it's a rather nice thing to do."

He paused, "Thank you."

Just then, John bursted out of the lodge, walking full speed toward the two as they sat on a wooden bench overlooking the countryside. His face was lined with anger and his body language meant business.

"Will you excuse us please, Phil?" He asked hurriedly.

"Yes, of course," the boy answered. He was confused, but he got up nonetheless and headed quickly toward the lodge to give the two men privacy. He stopped to look behind as he reached the second stair of the porch, holding on to the pillar as his gait slowed to a crawl. He knew it was not his business, but he was curious as to why John was in such a huff when normally he was very even-tempered. He crept backward toward the door, attempting to be inconspicuous. But John caught him out of the corner of his eye and turned with a look that could have stopped an army. Phil gasped, knowing he was caught, and ran into the lobby, the door flying shut behind him. Satisfied they were alone, John turned back to Sherlock.

"Why?" It was said in a most serious way.

"Why what?" Sherlock replied, placing his violin on his lap.

"This sudden change, and don't pretend to not know what I'm talking about, Sherlock. This was all supposed to be settled, no changes, everyone knew their part. There's a lot riding on this and you know it. How could you be so selfish?" John was exasperated and the anger showed in his eyes.

"Selfish? Last night you told me it was the most unselfish thing you've ever seen me do..." he started.

John interrupted, "I'd rather not discuss last night if you don't mind," he ran his fingers through his hair. His manner became flustered and he paced back and forth.

Sherlock drew back at this and replied as objectively as possible, "I admit, I got a little carried away, but there's nothing to be ashamed of, John. It was only a simple kiss. No one has signed a contract. There's certainly nothing for you to feel guilty about," Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly.

His perceived disregard of the situation only incited John's anger and he stopped, "Look who's talking about guilt!"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean you shouldn't mix dreams with liverwurst and buttermilk."

"John, have you eaten today?"

"I'm not hungry, and don't change the subject! Now, I have a lot of details to work out. If you have something to say to me, than say it!" He wanted an explanation as to why he would back out and not have the courtesy to say anything to him. He wanted to know why he would let Mrs. Hudson down, and he wanted to hear it from Sherlock's own lips.

"You came out here to talk to me!" he exclaimed indignantly, "And if I had something to say, I would have done so. But I have stayed away as requested. I would not want to interrupt the business plans of the great John Watson."

Standing back, John put his hands on his hips, "That's quite a remark."

"It's the best I can do. Now is that all Mr. Watson?" Came the sharp reply.

"Yes, that's all, Mr. Holmes."

With that, each man stalked off in their own direction. Sherlock toward his bungalow, and John back toward the lodge. Each door slammed in turn, it's finality echoing through the quiet winter countryside.

xxxxxx


	4. Of a White Christmas

Christmas Eve came to the little lodge just on the outskirts of Weymouth. It was ushered in like a gentleman entering a room of awaiting celebrants. The holly was hung, the lamps alight, and a starry sky blanketed the world. The chill upon the air was as sharp as the mood behind the curtains of the small stage. The cast was all gathered, with one exception.

"I can't believe this; he's really not going to show up," John paced back and forth on stage left. The crowd had gathered and was still entering the restaurant. The buzz could be heard and it all was for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had returned that afternoon. She almost fainted from shock at all of the folks who were checking in. Every room in the Colombia Lodge was full up. People were still flocking in for afternoon cocktails, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous consulting detective when John let her in on their little secret. Sweet tears of thankfulness filled her eyes and she hugged him so tightly he thought she might never let go. He wished Sherlock had been there for the surprise as well, but he remained MIA.

"He'll be here," Lestrade assured him.

"After yesterday, I'm not so sure. We had a pretty good row. I think he was serious. I just don't understand why."

Donovan stepped in then, overhearing the conversation and coming to understand that the game had not yet been revealed, "Anderson didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" John questioned.

"I knew it. I knew this wasn't a good idea," she paused, shaking her head with regret.

John was becoming impatient, "What?! What wasn't a good idea?"

As if by fate, Anderson chose that moment to show up backstage, "Hello all, is everyone ready for our mystery?" He rubbed his hands together.

"Not everyone," Sally gave Anderson a disapproving look, crossing her arms across her chest.

Anderson looked around in confusion until he realized there was no Sherlock to be found. His face changed from merry and mischievous to apologetic and surprised. Donovan once again stepped in and began to explain the whole thing. John's face reddened as the story went on and he cut her off just as she was about to say for the third time how they didn't think it would go this far.

"How could you be stupid enough to pull something like this? Messing with people's lives...you ought to be horse-whipped. First you," he pointed to Anderson, "then you," pointing to Sally, "and then you again!" finishing with Anderson.

"Gee, we didn't think..." Anderson started, rubbing the back of his neck with shame.

"That's just it, you didn't think," John sighed and composed himself, "Now, I'm going to find Sherlock to square it with him. And I want you to do one thing for me. Make sure the crowd doesn't get restless. I don't know how long this may take. You make sure these people are filled with bloody yuletide cheer. Mrs. Hudson's happiness is riding on it."

"You can count on us, John. We'll break a leg tonight!" Anderson called to John as he walked toward the exit.

John spun around and said with a gleam in his eye, "Well, break your leg, or your ankle, or your neck, just don't break anything valuable," with that he dashed out the side door in search of the Main Event.

He checked Sherlock's room first, but the lights were out and there was no answer at the door. He went to his own room on the off-chance Sherlock had sought him out. But no one was there either. He ran back to the front of the lodge. There were still people filing into the entrance and the lobby was brimful. He sighed with frustration; he needed to find Sherlock and soon. John cut through the crowd with urgency. He moved so quickly, he scarcely noticed bumping into the shoulder of none other than the elder Holmes brother, Mycroft.

"John," Mycroft reached out his umbrella and grabbed John by the arm.

"Mycroft," John said with surprise. He had invited all of the Holmes', but he had not expected this particular one to show, "I'm sorry, I'd love to exchange insults with you, but I'm looking for Sherlock. It's almost time for..."

Just then, the opening music began to play. 

"I believe, my dear Watson, that my little brother is way ahead of you."

He pointed through the double doors in front of them. Across the audience, and standing perfectly still in the middle of the stage, was Sherlock. He was dressed in a black suit with a bright red shirt and a white silk tie in a double Windsor. His lapel brandished a glittering silver boutonnière of holly leaves. The berries sparkled red in the center and were only matched for their audacity by the fur-lined Santa hat atop the consulting detective's wily auburn curls. He peered out over the group of expectant patrons. One would think him completely at ease should they be of little consequence to him, but John knew better. His eyes gave his nervousness away and the slight fidget of his fingers along his bow announced his anxiety. The violin that hung at his side reflected the warm stage lighting. It glowed, and though its companion was not yet running along its delicate strings, an intimation of it's lovely sound was minutely audible. Perhaps imagination, perhaps expectation, but as ever the tenor of the envisaged melody brought about a yuletide merriment that made the diminutive room seem abundant and welcoming.

Sherlock discovered John standing across the crowd and his breath drew in viciously. He slowly raised his violin and, closing his eyes, brought the bow to rest upon the taught strings. Then came a strain so pure in its movement that it silenced every mouth in the vicinity. We Three Kings of Orient Are rang through the room and reached all spaces that would have it, and some that would not. It was sweet and nostalgic. Smiles of remembrance quickly spread throughout the room, and John was no exception. The rapturous tune hushed his fiercely beating heart though his breath remained ragged. It was suspect that the reason for this phenomenon was not his recent exertion, but that his heart held perfectly still in place to allow his ears to take in the melody, as the form onstage took his breath away.

But the song was about at an end and this snapped the former soldier out of his absorption. Mycroft's eyes followed his path as he turned and ran back to the side door of the stage. Just as he reached the curtain, Lestrade came into view on center stage announcing the night's performance. John breathed a sigh of relief. Just then the red velvet curtain flew back and in walked Sherlock with a flourish. The close proximity was unavoidable and they met face to face as the air around them turned to molasses. John swung his arm around Sherlock's neck and pulled him behind the Christmas tree set just beside the curtain. In one smooth move, a passionate kiss was laid upon his lips and the hold upon him tightened lest he attempt to play his fervor false. That, however, would not be the case this night. The game that was afoot was not just that of mystery and play; it was an homage to friendship and an act of love.

John drew back from Sherlock, whose cheeks were now a stunning shade of red, "I don't know how I could have doubted you."

"Sometimes I make it easy to do so," Sherlock returned with a shy half smile.

An introduction was heard by both men marking the beginning of the show.

"Ready?" John asked, letting go of his breath.

"Ready," came the sturdy reply.

They turned to walk onto the stage hand in hand. Blood humming in their veins, they took their places. The lights went up, and when they went down once again, the crowd was on their feet in a roar. Everyone had played their part to a T, even Sherlock, and they all ran off stage smiling and patting each other on the back. The mystery was a success.

Molly Hooper ran backstage to congratulate everyone. Her excitement was genuine; she had been so dismayed when she was unable to participate. Now, having seen the excellent job they had done, and the sheer joy on Mrs. Hudson's face, she could hardly contain herself. She gave Sherlock a big hug and kissed him on the cheek. Stepping back, her cheeks flushed and she barely squeaked out an apology before Lestrade came up and embraced her. The consulting detective cocked his head to one side. He always felt awkward when someone hugged him. _Except John. John was different._ Sherlock noticed something then out of his peripheral, a vision he thought would not come to pass this holiday season. Out of one of the backstage windows, a flurry of soft, white snow was falling. The wind blew it in swirls around the thin, bare trees. They seemed to celebrate its arrival, despite the cold it brought upon them.

"John!" Sherlock called.

John looked over from the revelry, only just coming out of a firm hug from Lestrade himself. His eyes widened and he slowly came to stand alongside Sherlock, "Would you look at that."

Sherlock turned his face to John mere inches away, "It's snowing."

The smile that followed was beyond brilliant.

They ran to the large doors behind the stage and opened them wide. The countryside was covered in a thin blanket of white. You could not have found a better landscape on a Hallmark card. The ropes were pulled from stage right and the red velvet curtains parted. The oohs and ahhs sprang up from the crowd and the clapping and cheering became even louder. Sherlock and John turned to each other, knowing smiles plastered on their faces. They had done it. The people would return to the Colombia Lodge; if nothing else, to remember and reminisce about the Christmas that Sherlock came to the outskirts of Weymouth. To remember the danger, the mystery, the music, and finally, the snow.

The two merrymakers turned and walked arm in arm to center stage. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson entered and joined them. Sherlock took a step forward, as Phil handed him his violin. He brought the instrument to his chin once more and began to play. The beautiful melody of White Christmas leapt off of the strings. It was not alone for long before the cast began to accompany it with its sentimental lyrics. And it was not long after that the audience was obliged to join in.

Greg Lestrade jumped down off of the stage and grabbed Mrs. Hudson from the front table, pulling her up on stage despite the handkerchief she held to her teary eyes. She was received by John, who hugged her tightly. Lestrade, a mischievous smile on his face, hopped down once more and ran to the back where Mycroft sat. The stoic man's face barely held a look of surprise, though inwardly he was completely off-guard, as Greg grabbed him and gave a firm tug. Out of his seat he went and tripped about as he was dragged up to the stage. He gave a look of repulsion to the cast, but Sherlock glanced over and, with some feigned annoyance, Mycroft's face softened. He stood with them and actually allowed himself to enjoy the festivity.

Standing by the bar, Sherlock's parents held each other, beaming with pride. Their boys were together on Christmas, each doing good in their own way. Without a look above, they kissed, mistletoe be damned.

And that's how it went that fine Christmas Eve, amidst murder and misunderstanding, solicitude and snow. The last few stanzas of a song crafted for such a night rang out through the open doors as people snugged together to enjoy a scene sent down from the heavens just for them. When the music ended and the evening waned, Sherlock and John walked into the snowy night. Lit only by wrought iron lanterns, the small, wooden bridge arched above the now frozen stream, and this is where they came to stand. It was ideal, absolutely ideal. The delicate flakes came to rest atop their heads and eyelashes as they looked to the starlit sky. Sherlock's arm wrapped around John's shoulders, eventually coming to embrace him fully.

Pulling back, Sherlock's voice was low and easy, "That was quite a spectacle you made happen in there."

John stared right back at Sherlock, "Sometimes I get carried away," his voice was dry and wavering. The cold bit at his sensibilities, but that was not the only cause of the tremble.

It was exactly 47 seconds when Sherlock's reply cut through the stillness, "And you carried me with you, I don't weigh very much."

The tremble was now shared between them. To the tips of their fingers, it tremored as their hands reached for each other. The brushing of the lips that followed brought about a hum and a warmth so virtuous that Spring itself would shy away from it's consummate execution. So soft it was and so dear, that though it pained them greatly, they parted ever so slightly for one vital tradition.

"Merry Christmas, John."

His breath puffed out in white clouds between them. Though close, the space was quietly regarded as too great. John leaned his forehead in and gently met Sherlock's.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's finally done. My first Sherlock fic, and just in time for the holidays. Please feel free to comment. I'd love to hear from you!


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